


You had none, I had one

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, About Hannibal's horse, Animals, As strange as it sounds, Beta Read, Book reference, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03, Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 19:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: There was something to be said about Hannibal’s unexpected fondness for animals. Will hadn’t realized they had in common far more basilar features than their murderous inclinations.Written for this year’s Fandom Trumps Hate





	You had none, I had one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jonnimir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnimir/gifts).



> I’ve been bidden to explore the concept of Hannibal being unexpectedly fond of animals, which is an idea that has its merits and should probably be exploited more often. I hope I did an adequate job, considering it’s an initiative I wholeheartedly support. Many thanks to Jonnimir for bidding in the first place and to killers_on_mondays for having helped me figure out some of my usual, unavoidable mistakes.

You had none,  
I had one.  
I loved. _  
— Weaknesses_ , Bertold Brecht ([x](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/177773240589/))

 

“He once told Bella he employed an _ethical butcher_ ,” Jack reminisced, seemingly without a better reason to talk than to interrupt their uncomfortable silence. He looked affronted just thinking about it, his assertion leaving a familiar bittersweet taste in the mouth, a hint of nostalgia for his late wife mingling with his scotch. Will’s ‘want to get wasted’ selection.

“He tried to never outright lie,” Will rectified. Hannibal’s name still unsavory on their tongues, yet undeniably part of their conversation. His image reflected in Will’s glass of still water. Too soon to drink anything different after his surgery. “He found it amusing to mislead us saying things we wouldn’t understand, challenged us to follow the trail of ambiguous wording he left behind, deliberately laughing with us, _at_ us, when we failed.” Will paused, sipped his serving. “He much preferred to omit truths, it’s just a game he plays.”

Jack didn’t look terribly impressed with Will’s observation.

“He probably did employ an ethical butcher, when he wasn’t playing butcher himself,” Will clarified, knowing that wouldn’t placate him. Upon reflection, Will considered those words more closely. He killed gruesomely and in the most beautiful, sadistic ways his brain could conjure, but he went to an _ethical butcher_.

 

“I let him feed my dogs,” Will told Alana over a cup of coffee, revisiting an inconvenient past, seeking long-lost sympathy in her cold, still lovely eyes. “Long before he let Mason feed them his own face.”

She nodded, politely feigning interest in their subject. “Hannibal tends to defy labels,” she admitted. “Most psychopaths display apathy towards animals, torture some in their youth and keep mistreating them in their adulthood in most cases. He even learned the name of yours,” she noticed with clinical detachment.

In her opulent castle, surrounded with fine porcelain and ancient books, Alana found her own barrier to protect herself from unwanted memories of her former mentor. “He’s intelligent, sensitive,” Will said, distracted, as if another Hannibal resided in another world altogether instead of five doors from his current seat. “He might have given them meat I wouldn’t have approved of, but they always fawned at his arrival, probably hoping for more human sausage to come,” Will considered. “They never seemed on their guard when he visited, no display of aggressive or submissive behaviour around him.”

“He may have been more frightened to have their hair on his suits,” Alana observed, eliciting a soft smile from the both of them. She willingly forgot about Hannibal’s intricate nature and fascinating mind, which inspired immense envy in Will, as well as endless pity.

“Admittedly, I never pegged him for a dog person,” Alana admitted, coffee still lingering in her breath. She must have longed for her caffeine income during her providential pregnancy, she radiated contentment along her new suave perfume.

Will smelled like he always had. His unfortunate aftershave and those same dogs Hannibal had doted on, despite appearing indifferent to their canine charm. Will knew about his latent violence, was intimately aware of it, yet he realized that reducing Hannibal to his most primal urges would have been counterproductive in understanding him entirely.

 

“You’ve become one of those snails that survive digestion and travel the world in the belly of the beast,” Chiyoh observed, tending to Will’s major injuries with patience. Slender fingers on his sore shoulder, impersonal touches on his mistreated flesh.

In consequence of his inconsiderate, impulsive oceanic plunge, Will’s jaw reported significant damage, for which his ability to speak was temporary compromised. Will was hence denied both coffee and alcohol for the foreseen future, to his chagrin.

“He purposefully spared you,” Chiyoh continued, tone light, unassuming. “He’s been seeking a travelling companion for a while.” Will could agree with her, except that he had clawed his way out of Hannibal’s mouth on his own. _The snail that becomes a firefly_ , Will thought rather incoherently. His mind conjured fanciful images in its altered state.

It often revisited Hannibal’s abandoned Lithuanian estate, the remains of his past cochlear gardens. His passion for shelled creatures, which would bear the taste of whatever fed them, to which Will could feel a certain kinship.

Hannibal had enjoyed elaborately flavouring snails in his youth as much as in his adulthood, albeit experimenting on different subjects. In his distorted, dedicated manner, he’d been unexpectedly fond and devoted to them. More affectionate than Hannibal ever appeared with his own acquaintances, genuinely or otherwise, those with whom he endeavoured to share his meals.

 

Acutely aware of Hannibal’s dietary habits and personal history, Will wouldn’t have presumed his boundaries would ever allow him to spare scraps from his plate for some undomesticated beast. Diseased, ungrateful cats haunted the Roman streets below their sun-drenched loft, attracting unremarkable tourists much like themselves.

“Would you,” Will began, swallowing his words, then resuming his intentions. “Do you want to take it inside?” Will asked. It was rather auspicious that he had left his old custom to pick up strays on the Atlantic shoreline. “You feed them, they follow you home. I know the logistics,” Will explained at Hannibal’s inquiring stare, momentarily averted from the insistent felines festing upon his hand-feeded treats. “I assume you’re on board with them refusing to leave.”

Will had spent so much of his time tending to his several dogs and profiling serial killers, it never occurred to him those dimensions could merge outside of himself. “I wouldn’t oppose, you know,” Will admitted, understanding, conspiratorial, “if you decided you want a pet.” _Or seven_ , Will reflected.

His words moved Hannibal’s hands to stillness. Will wondered whether his affected tolerance for lesser lifeforms was in fact another layer of his person suit. Acknowledging his blessing might have destabilized Hannibal.

As if to prove himself above considering further company in his existence, Hannibal stoically straightened and dismissed Will’s appraisal. “Don’t worry yourself, I’m rather pleased with our current arrangement,” he said, moving towards their rooms with dignified steps. “I derive no meaningful amount of pleasure looking after anything other than yourself,” he deflected, playful smile on his lips.

Will didn’t follow through, lowering himself to cuddle their mewling audience instead. “Same goes for petting, I bet,” Will chimed, hand caressing coarse fur. Regretting it when paws were raised to scratch it.  “I don’t find cats all that interesting,” and didn’t _that_ sound challenging to Hannibal’s ears, “but I’d live with one or two, if you like.” He internally complimented himself for not wincing at the unalluring prospect. “You’d have to bargain for more, but I’m amenable to introduce dogs to rebalance.”

It seemed to struck Hannibal, for some reason. He halted his inconspicuous retreat, admired Will’s bent figure with a curious glint in his eyes. His blank facial expression clued Will about his intense pondering. “Subtle,” he teased lightly rather than addressing the issue. “I’ll take your proposal into consideration,” he promised, condescending.

Will resumed his indolent waiting, unmoving on his spot, confident Hannibal would disclose himself given proper incentive. Will knew there was more than pride behind his reticence.

His heels were sore by the moment Hannibal uttered, “I had a horse once.” He looked a little caught up in the past. An unseasonal coldness seeping through his pores, hardening his still features. Will guessed those reminiscences of his horse belonged with the same memories of his late sister. “You’ve lost it,” Will assumed.

“Gruesomely,” Hannibal revealed.

Will could believe that, considering the rest of his childhood anecdotes. He felt the sudden urge to pry, to learn more about the grim episode around which his personality wrapped itself, to know after whom Hannibal, or even Mischa, might’ve named it. How Hannibal felt about its loss, aside from gravely insulted.

“I learned quite soon that animals were fragile beings, even more so than humans,” Hannibal confessed, eyes settled on Will’s feet. “Their girth was reduced to an illusion of strength and might.”

 _Hannibal not dealing well with unfulfilled expectations,_ Will thought, exasperated, mindful of the feline claws attempting at his fingers. “How did that poem about weaknesses go,” Will wondered, turned to his uninterested cats. “You little fellas should defend yourself, you’re more than a potential weak spot,” Will encouraged. His words were received with famished yawns. Hannibal stalled on his feet.

“I won’t think _less_ of you if you like animals,” Will stated. It sounded ridiculous, yet apparently it ought to be said. “Perhaps a bit more endearing,” Will conceded, “but still the strong and mighty murderer you always were, the sensitive psychopath I ached to profile.”

Will could admire Hannibal’s breath faltering, his shoulders broadening. His mind elaborating Will’s suggestion, its captivating mechanisms in function. All traces of condescence faded in a contemplative silence, as Hannibal resumed his ascent towards their quarters upstairs. He might be seriously considering his words, God forbid.

Satisfied, Will followed his lead. Owning seven dogs never made him less dangerous. On the contrary, it gave him reason to stand up for someone other than himself.

 

After their conversation, Hannibal had felt inspired to administer to Will a generous helping of heavy petting, which left him gleeful and satisfied. In a matter of hours, softly grazing his hair afterwards, Hannibal casually mentioned an unexpected interest for animal husbandry. Goat milk, Will had been explained, was more nutritious and digestible than regular cow milk. An expanding market in Hannibal’s opinion, and didn’t _that_ sound like the kind of fussy business he would enjoy.

Before delving further into farming purposes, he abandoned Will for the sake of breakfast, a secretive glint in Hannibal’s eyes. He kissed his lips, caressed his neck, touched his nape. It felt familiar, complimented their lazy sunday morning.

Surrounded with warm light and wrinkled sheets, Will contemplated the tantalizing perfume coming from their utilitarian kitchen, lingering in a persistent state of comfort. His sleepy mind provided vivid images of Hannibal handling horned beasts and flavouring Will’s coffee with a more savoury milk.

It appealed to Will. It also reminded him of that unassuming sheep Hannibal had petted in front of Clark Ingram, kneeling before Will’s gun still covered in viscera. The memory elicited a loud, unbridled laugh from him. “That fucking sheep,” Will chuckled, hands on his stomach to contain the spasms, “I should have known back _then_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rome seems to be one of the most interesting places for cat lovers ([x](https://matadornetwork.com/read/5-best-cities-world-cat-lovers/))  
> Photoset [on Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/561762) and [on Tumblr](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/183840029584/)


End file.
